


These Moments of Joy, Despite Everything

by jonasnightingale



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Softie Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonasnightingale/pseuds/jonasnightingale
Summary: There's ash in the drawn creases of his face, the scent of burning lodged deep in his lungs, but when Aziraphale follows him through dark rooms in the wake of a world almost destroyed, there's a whisper of something more.“Life offers up these moments of joy despite everything,”― Sally Rooney, Normal People





	These Moments of Joy, Despite Everything

He follows Crowley’s trudging form through the dark apartment. He had hoped, in a small chamber of his heart, perhaps for a cup of tea, a few minutes with hands warming and legs almost touching. But saving the world has caught up with Crowley, and the strain of holding time still has landed heavy on his shoulders, each muscle taught, the casual saunter of his hips reduced to sluggish stomping footfalls. Aziraphale wrinkles his nose at the sharp acidic smell wafting around them, but the demon with sights set on a dark room and a soft mattress doesn’t look his way. He simply flings his hands out in short gestures and the words are rough as he motions to doors. “Beds in there, couch over there, sleep wherever you like.” and he starts towards the bedroom, halted only by Aziraphale’s desperate voice, “Crowley, what _is_ that smell?” One would not have thought it possible for the usually languid form to tense even more. And yet. There’s a heavy pause, punctuated by a deep swallow, before he can find the words. “Ligur. What’s left of him at least.” His eyes flick up to the angels and he chases the emotions across his face. “I… our insurance policy. Kitchen counter has your thermos.” he tries to supply helpfully, but it simply chases the confused brow away into a wide-eyed fear. He sighs, lets his shoulders droop. “I’ll deal with them.. **it**.. tomorrow. G’night angel.” He continues the trek to his room, crumpling face first into the softness of linen sheets andsuccumbing to the exhaustion. Aziraphale stays rooted in place, halfway between a room he knows houses the greenest of plants and a room that reeks of decay. He tries to swallow the irrational panic.

With the dregs of the liquified demon cleared away, every drop of holy water carefully extracted from the floor, the door, the walls, Aziraphale slips out of his shoes and places his coat across the back of a nearby chair. He lowers himself carefully onto the mattress, needlessly wary of waking his sleeping friend. Crowley doesn’t stir. He doesn’t often get the opportunity to look at him like this, to catalogue his form without its usual flurry of movement, without a sharp comment or raised eyebrow. He indulges the chance; eyes raking across the sprawl of limbs, the sunglasses half fallen off his drawn face. There’s a layer of soot still coating his skin, flakes of burnt leather scattered through his hair like dandruff. A shrewd part of his humour supplies ‘poor boy looks like he’s been through hell’, but there’s too much fondness and pain and concern for it to even make his lips quirk in poor taste. He miracles a bucket of warm water and cloth, sets to work on gently wiping his favourite demon clean. The sunglasses are slowly pulled free, folded and placed on the headboard, and as Aziraphale finishes removing the layer of grime from Crowleys hand with soft caresses he wraps his own around it and rests them upon his thigh. 

Aziraphale is half-way through _Normal People_ when the prone form beside him sucks in a sharp breath and releases it as a pained whimper, a heart wrenching “no, no, please”. He shuffles closer as Crowley’s eyes dart beneath his lids, bewildered repetitions of “no” clenching Aziraphale’s heart in a tight vice. He begins to whisper back, “it’s okay, Crowley, everything is alright dear, you’re okay.”, carding his fingers into the other mans hair in what he hopes is a soothing motion. The demon wakes with a start, a wail on his lips and eyes glistening. They both freeze. Until Crowley tears an uncertain “Angel?” from his throat, its shape rough and catching as it breaks past his teeth. Aziraphale can’t find the question it contains, opens his mouth to respond and closes it unsure, but gently leans his forehead against the other mans, fingers restarting to trace small rings into his hair. It’s then that Crowley realises with a jolt what precisely is keeping his hand so warm, the soft cocoon around it, and tenses, before ever so slowly letting that tension slip away, relaxing into the grip. 

He doesn’t want to scare him off again, has been so scared for so long of doing exactly that, so he stills, holds his breathe and tries to shut the dream out, the nightmare, the memory. But there’s still smoke lingering in his nose, its taste underneath his tongue, burnt paper and ink. The pain of it is what propels him as he suddenly lurches forward, pressing his form more snugly against the angel's side, face pressing urgently into the soft give between shoulder and neck. And Aziraphale doesn’t run, just lets out a surprised “oh!” and lets his fingers slip further down Crowley’s neck. 


End file.
